How much I miss them has been playing on me lately because a life plan B (or G or H - there are so many when you're a bourgeois Anglophone) has been presenting itself, namely to pack together a nest egg here over four years or so in my executive bourgeois role and then move to the Gold Coast of Australia. The Gold Coast is very, very far away and unattractive for that reason, and also unattractive because every time the F-word moves back to Australia he flips after about a year and moves back to Europe, and I have a feeling the next place I go will be where I want to really develop a good ass groove on the couch.
But it's the Gold Coast. It's the middle of winter there, and the sun is shining and it's 24°C; about 6°C higher than it is here in Brussels in the middle of the fucking, cocking terrible cunt of a summer. And I've always preferred the idea of raising children that come out of me in an Anglophone country because I'm a massive linguistic chauvinist. But England is a chilly sodden mess that's like here except with floods and unaffordable housing, Canada is either really cold or else British Columbia - well, that's a thought too - and the States is what it is. So there's Australia.
Hard to know what will happen. At the moment, I'm comfortable being €500 and ten hours of travel away from my friends and family in Canada. Let's see if, in three years, I'll be comfortable being €1200 and 28 hours of travel away. And let's see, in three years, if there hasn't been some global financial cataclysm that renders world travel out of the reach of all but the growing ranks of the super-rich, because if that's the case I'll have to engineer a bourgeois revolution before I think about moving anywhere. And let's see if I get through the rest of my probationary period at work without being tossed out on my ear.
Also at issue is that I'm considering becoming a part time shiatsu therapist to give me time to write and make babies under the auspices of Plan Gold Coast, and it remains to be seen if I can comfortably leave the ranks of the executive bourgeois to enter a manual industry, interesting and attractive as that industry is in so many ways that being an executive bourgeoise isn't.
Does that sound snotty? It should. It is snotty, and not the sort of attitude best calculated to increase my happiness. But something in my brain that sounds like my mother's voice, bless her, says that even thinking about the possibility of no longer being an Editor and being a Massoose instead is a silly step backwards socially speaking. And then something that sounds like Daddy's voice, bless him, says that's not why I went to school for so many years. And then a little five year old Missy La Spliffe pipes up, 'Hey! When you were my age you wanted to be a garbageman so you could jump on and off the back of the truck and throw shit! What the hell are you doing letting your spine curl into an S shape in an office all day! That's not me! That's not who I'm growing up into!'
Sigh. Only one thing is for sure, and that's that I'm starting to think I quit analysis too soon. I don't want to go back to my old analyst but I think I'll soon be ready to be analysed again. And this entry has been spellchecked, Dale, so I'm still saying a blog can only stand in for 15% of a talk therapy session.